The Wolf
by Stalks-the-Moon
Summary: "He looks young- too young, if Kodlak Whitemane were to be honest, but Kodlak Whitemane knows better than to judge one by their appearances." Set in Elder Scrolls V. warnings at the beginning of every chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello ladies, gents, and variations on the sort. This is a part of a greater series (actually, more of the middle of a series), but can be read as a stand-alone. I'm taking some liberties with Skyrim lore in this one. I hope you all don't mind.**

 **Warnings: N/A**

 **Word count: 943**

 **Constructive comments are more than welcome.**

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 **Chapter 1: Omen**

He looks young- too young, if Kodlak Whitemane were to be honest, but Kodlak Whitemane knows better than to judge one by their appearances. The boy before him is not the Twins, who were born into this. The Dunmer boy looks too young for the fever that grips him in the jaws of a wolf and he struggles to free himself from. The priestesses and priests of Kynareth form a half-circle across the altar from the Harbinger, their healing magic flowing ineffectually over the boy's slowly-breaking body.

He looks young- too young, if Kodlak Whitemane were to be honest, but Kodlak Whitemane knows better than to judge one by their appearances, and being too young does not mean he need go through this alone.

Priestess Danica is confused but not questioning when Kodlak takes the boy as a Charge of the Companions. The Companions have their own healers, after all, ones more versed in the wild illnesses. Besides, Danica is a smart woman, and she knows when her magics are doing more harm than help to the afflicted; at this point, she is desperate for anything that might save him. Kodlak only wishes that the cure were as simple as Danica seems to believe.

Aela carries the boy, as she is the only one between the three of them (the young recruit that they had brought included) both strong enough and unoccupied to do so. The recruit carries the boy's equipment, liberated from the temple, and spends the entire walk trying to peek over the pile of leather and metal and over Aela's shoulder to get a look at the boy who has captured the attention of the best of the Companions.

Kodlak and Aela spend the walk in distinct discomfort. Aela is nervous, uneasy, always shifting, and Kodlak knows that she sees it too; there is a wolf that prowls at the boy's side, large and as red as the markings that paint the boy's face, and ready to strike at a moment's notice. It does not trust Aela and holds only the barest amount of respect for Kodlak. The Harbinger understands that is it only through the wolf's good graces and its concern for its partner that they are allowed to touch the Dunmer at all. Kodlak can relate, to a point; it has been very much the same for himself as a young pup, and for the twins when they were brought to the Companions. Through affection and careful coaxing they had been taught loyalty, and to trust, but Kodlak has his doubts as to whether or not that would work for this one.

The wolf is wild, lithe as a saber-cat and muscled and fanged like a dragon, and Kodlak prays that there is one among the Companions that can bring it to heel.

Their entrance to Jorrvaskr is met with a certain amount of confusion and alarm; confusion on the part of the younger members, most of who had never seen anything like this before, and alarm on the part of the members of the Circle- of the pack. The boy's scent is strange, even for a pup, and it sends their nostrils flaring. The wolf at his side is wild and vicious in the presence of so many elders of its kind. Vilkas's head snaps up at the scent, and Kodlak can see a certain _fury_ in the man's eyes that is at odds with the instinctive protectiveness the scent invokes, and Kodlak knows that they are all as conflicted as he.

There is a room set apart from the others that Kodlak keeps empty for situations like this, as rare as they are, and he is glad now that he did not allow one of the up-and-coming Companions to take up residence in there. Aela lays the Dunmer on the bed with all the gentleness one would not normally attribute to her, and hardly a moment passes before the members of the Circle all try to crowd their way into the room at once. It is only the Harbinger's presence at the door and the red beast that snarls from the foot of the bed that stops them in their tracks. A whimper of pain invokes whimpers of sympathy from those gathered, and it is easy to see that it's all some of them can do to keep from rushing forward in the pup's defense.

There is disapproval on his face when Skjor looks Kodlak straight in the eye, but the man turns to leave nonetheless. Skjor is well old enough to have seen many pups pass through these halls and knows the mixtures that will ease the pain; he also knows the risks of new pups, to themselves and to others. But, if anything, he is loyal to Kodlak, and trusts his judgment. If that means taking in an injured pup, so be it.

It takes all the time of Skjor nodding and Kodlak turning back to the room for the Twins to have made themselves stoic gargoyles on either side of the bed. Their wolves sit obediently on either side of the Dunmer's. Their black fur frames the virulent red like the night sky does fire. Aela has disappeared somewhere into the mead hall (no doubt poking and prodding at the younger members until one of them starts a fistfight with her), leaving only Kodlak to witness the sight that is the Twin Wolves, the two that have always been exclusive to one another, allowing an elf into their fold.

It is an omen of change, Kodlak supposes, though he cannot possibly know if it is for good or for ill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: N/A**

 **Words: 1,117**

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 **Chapter 2: Awake.**

There is some confusion when the pup wakes, and Farkas watches it all with the kind of thoughtfulness that he puts into very few things. The wolf at his side keens at the pain on the Dunmer's face as he forces himself to sit up. The elf's wounds have not healed, not fully, but there is little care in his movements as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and forces himself upright. Vilkas is, for once, more assertive than Farks as he tries to force the elf to stay put.

And, for the longest time, the dark elf says nothing. His silence is as eerie as his shocking green eyes, the only indication of his true age; even Farkas knows that, until they reach an age long past the point any human would perish, a Dunmer's eyes are red. Despite all other physical features, this elf is _old_ , and Farkas can only wonder what might have happened to have left him so injured. The wounds are stacked on top of one another, separate beasts or packs of beast, deep and dangerous. There are bites and there are the jagged edges of claws. The bites could easily be attributed to whatever had turned the poor elf in the first place, but the claws…

Farkas knew of only one creature that could cause that kind of damage, and only fools fought dragons without the Dovakiin at their side.

Vilkas reaches out to force the Dunmer back onto the bed and his voice rings out for the first time, low but powerful. His warning does not fall on deaf ears; Vilkas pauses, not jerking away but not pressing forward either. The elf meets his gaze with a certain kind of cold confidence before he settles with his back against the headboard. He is calm, until his fingers come up to graze the hollow of his throat and find that there is nothing there.

It takes bother the Twin's reflexes to stop the elf from flinging himself off the bed. Flames lick at Farkas's palms, curling vibrant and green up his arms, and he understands now the reason behind the elf's warning. Old magics from the days of Atmora still run through the dark elf's blood- and run rampant in his panic.

"Where is it?" the Dumner growls, and his wolf echoes it with a rumble of its own. Farkas meets Vilkas's eyes, ready to knock the elf out should he decide to push any further, and it's Deus ex machina that sends Kodlak on them at that moment.

"Calm down, cub. Your pendant is right here."

Green eyes snap to meet old silver, and Kodlak Whitemane lays the gold and emerald pendant at the end of the bed. It's an elaborate thing, gold detailed with moonstone and quicksilver, shaped into a flaming phoenix with chips of forest green for eyes. The elf is a blur when the Twins release him, snatching up the pendent and pressing it to his chest as though it could take the place of his heart. There are thanks murmured into the air, and Kodlak smiles.

"It's no trouble. I supposed you wouldn't have wanted it damaged in your sickness, so I held onto it for you. I also took the liberty of having your equipment brought here with you," Kodlak adds. "You will find it in the chest by the door when you are well enough to move about again. Until then," Kodlak says, pausing for a moment to give the Twins very pointed looks, "I'm sure the boys here will be glad to get you whatever you need."

Silence reigns in the Harbinger's wake. The elf is back to the mute he was moments after waking as he fixes the pendant around his neck. Vilkas is too busy nursing the wounds the flames left on his hands. Farkas does the same, though his are less serious, and he has no great desire to break the hush. Words never have really been his strong point, after all. He leaves those to Vilkas, and Vilkas seems to have no want to say anything either.

It's not as though they do nothing in the time between spoken words, however. Vilkas collects a small plate of light foods, foods appropriate for a pup just waking from his first shift. Neither man is certain just how long this elf has been a wolf, but they are not ready to take any risks. The elf eats slowly, patiently, breaking his food into small pieces and eating as though someone had presented him with the most luxurious of foods and not a simple fare of bread and dried meat and watered mead. Vilkas watches the elf as though he is something dangerous now, especially after that show of magic, measuring him up with a much more critical eye. Farkas does the same. What once appeared to be just skin and bones becomes lean muscle and battle-worn scars. There is a hint of glow about him, sleeping magic waiting just below the surface of his skin, and there is no doubt in Farkas's mind that the elf needs no magic to take down the both of them.

There is something feral about the elf, hidden beneath the fragile veneer of tame sophistication, and Farkas knows it has nothing to do with the wolf that rests at the elf's side.

"You know," the elf says finally, and both of the Twins start at the sound of it, "I don't think I ever got your names."

Vilkas's eyes flick to his brother's for but a moment as if for confirmation before introductions are made. Just as they had been measuring up the elf, so the elf had been measuring them up, and Farkas can tell that he is no impressed- but neither is he about to underestimate them. "Erin" is the clipped reply they receive, and, from the look on Erin's face, that's all the reply they are going to get.

There is a moment's more of tension before Erin slumps against the backboard, eyes dropping a bit before he jerks awake again, and Farkas can tell that this all has been a bit too much for the injured elf in one day. He leans forward that that his elbows rest on the bed and he can reach out and press a hand against the comforter over Erin's hip; his intent is not to intrude on the elf's space, but to _comfort_. There is a moment when Erin jerks, the touch unfamiliar, but his shoulders soon slump as his muscles relax and he finally rests.

At the foot of the bed, a red beast rests among black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings: Brief violence.**

 **Word Count: 1,124**

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 **Chapter 3: A Wolf Among Dogs.**

Vilkas is not certain of the new whelp. There are not many elf-wolves among the Circle, have not been many in the past, and Erin is strange ground that has not really been touched in his lifetime. Skjor speaks, sometimes, of a great Bosmer that lived during the Great War and died only months before the Twins were brought to the Companions, but as far as Vilkas knows there have not been any elf-wolves since. The Dumner at present is unsettling to be around at times; his greens eyes are intense, his movements almost unnaturally smooth, and his red beast is always ready to strike. And there is magic there, lurking, that puts Vilkas on edge.

It takes a good four days after the elf first woke for him to heal fully, over that time which he had spoken only a handful of words, and at the end of that time he almost rushed to get back into his armor. It is light armor, but not cloth or leather. It is scale, perhaps, but it is a metal or material the likes of which Vilkas has never seen. The clasps are hidden, but either easy to work or well-practiced because Erin fastens them with speed that is almost impressive.

It is only when he is handed his weapons, wrapped in cloth to preserve their integrity in the wooden chest, that he takes his time to look over them fully, examining every inch of the black metal before slipping them into the harness that hangs over the small of his back. The twin Daedric blades give off an aura of _wrongness_ that made Vilkas's skin crawl as he held them through the cloth and seem to give off their own unearthly light, though Vilkas knows that is not possible.

It falls on Vilkas to test Erin's skill. They go out into the yard behind Jorrvaskr, on the cliff overlooking the whole of Whiterun Hold to the north and to the east, and Erin takes a moment just to look out on the scene before him. Vilkas wonders, idly as he prepares his own sword and shield, if the elf has ever seen the Hold from this vantage point. He doubts it; not many are allowed into the training yards of the Companions.

"Whenever you're ready," Vilkas says shortly. Erin blinks once, long and slow and still facing the edge of the cliff, and then there is the ring of metal against metal as the edges of his blades catch on Vilkas's shield. The blow is unexpected in its speed and it its power, as the elf moves almost faster than Vilkas's wolf-keen senses can follow. The force behind them pushes him back reluctant step by reluctant step. The end to their short spar is called more for the sake of Vilkas's pride than it is because one of them can no longer continue. Vilkas puts up a good fight, but there comes a point when the blood-tempered ebony chips at the Skyforge-steel of his sword and he realizes that this is not a fight he can win.

The crowd that has gathered is a mixture of boos and cheers, and Erin's blades fall back into their sheathes as he stands and breathes. Maybe it's the heaving of his chest as he tries to catch his breath, or the sheen of sweat on his brow, or the way his eyes flicker about as though he is ready to rush into battle again, but there is something wild about the elf that should not be as alluring as it is. Vilkas shakes off the though before it can become anything dangerous. He examines the edge of his sword, frowning at the sheer amount of damage that had been done to it. Perhaps, he thinks, ebony or Daedric crafting is something he should invest in at some point…

"Whelp," he calls with a false amount of hardness, and is almost surprised when Erin responds. "Since you damaged my blade, run it up to Eorlund Graymane to get it repaired. And be careful with it; that piece of metal might actually be worth more than you are."

Erin smirks, but there is hesitance in his movements when he takes the blade, and he holds it with the kind of respect that he does not even show the Harbinger of the Companions. It is an odd display of preference that tells more of the elf's personality than Vilkas ever wanted to know, and it sends a cold shiver down his spine.

He turns away and leaves before he can do anything stupid.

The next time he sees the elf is later that night, when he spots Erin sitting across the room from him, tucked neatly between Aela and Farkas. Erin is nervous, twitchy, eyes flicking constantly about the room as though he isn't paying attention to the story that Aela is quite boastfully telling. It strikes Vilkas that Erin isn't being intentionally quiet. He reacts, just as any other person would, just not in the way any other person would expect: a smile in the place of a laugh, a shrug or a nod or a quick series of clear gesture in place of a response.

Wordless communication is simply his way, Vilkas realizes, and it leaves him time to do other things as well as pay attention to the conversation. Erin doesn't react to Vilkas's entrance except to orient himself in a position more comfortable to track his path around the room, but Skjor's entrance has the elf almost instantly hunched down in his seat. Vilkas feels his hackles rise. It is irrational, he understands, because Skjor would never hurt the whelp and it's not as though Erin hasn't already proven he can take care of himself and Vilkas _shouldn't care_. It happens anyways.

Vilkas takes the seat at his brother's side, and he grasps why exactly Aela would have sat the pup between herself and Farkas: there is no safer place in the mead hall to be. Skjor does not glare from his place on Aela's other side, but he does not yet fully trust. He is not the only one. One of the recruits- Njada, was her name?- glares openly from the far end of the table, and her displeasure can be felt even from that distance. There is the momentary fear that she is going to hurl a knife across the room or something equally extreme, but Vilkas dispels it from his mind quickly. No one is that rude- or insane.

Or, so Vilkas had thought, up until they were sitting around one of the communal fires in the yard and Njada walks up and nails Erin across the face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings: Brief Violence**

 **Word Count: 1,210**

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 **Chapter 4: To be a Companion.**

The fist collides with Erin's cheek, and three growls ring so clearly and fiercely that Aela has trouble keeping herself in her seat. This is what she had been afraid of; the elf is not an argumentative person by nature (not a talkative person, really), but his personality and demeanor and situation puts some of the recruits on edge, and not all can recognize the markers of an aged elf. She never feared anyone actually being able to do any real damage to Erin. She did, however, fear what kind of damage he might do if he fought back.

It's clear from that first hit, however, that Erin has no intention of fighting back. His head snaps to the side unnecessarily, though likely to preserve the integrity of Njada's hand. Elves, as oppose to humans, only grow tougher as they age, into bones as hard as iron and skin as supple and strong as leather, and Erin is much older than his appearances betray. Aela can see Skjor and the Twins lurch forward before they catch themselves, and she starts counting how long it will take for the entire gathering to devolve into brawling.

It never comes to that. Erin meets Njada's eyes with a kind of cold poise that is befitting of him. His words are soft, but they _carry_ over the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the night when he asks, "Are you happy now?"

Njada is taken aback. Of course she is; a strong-willed Nord woman, firm in her beliefs and never questioning herself, probably never though Erin to be anything other than a snobbish, stuck-up elf. But he is not. Aela could tell that from only a few minutes being around the whelp. He is icy in his calm, fiery in his spirit, shocking in his strength and ancient in his knowledge and in his wisdom. He is a Nord in a Dunmer's skin, Aela likes to think, though without the general distaste for magic and love for dogs.

The tension dissipates. Njada takes a seat across the fire from Erin, still looking irked but looking _less so_. The elf blinks at her, rubbing absently at the spot where she'd hit him, and nods. The Twins and Skjor settle back down, though Vilkas looks like he's about ready to tear the poor girl a new one. Aela does not blame him. In fact, she is about ready to do the same; what Njada did was rash, impulsive, even for a Companion.

("And what does he have to offer the Companions?" Njada will ask later when Aela confronts her about what happened. "He is an elf and an outsider. I don't even know why Skj- you all allowed him entrance in the first place."

Aela will remind her gently that they are all their own master, that she had no place to judge what Erin had to offer the Companion, and that what he has to offer will be proven in due time. Njada will sneer contemptuously, will turn and leave, but she will take Aela's words with a grain of salt.)

Midnight finds Erin on the edge of the cliffs, long after all of the fires have died. Green fire- magic fire, clearly- swirls around his fingers as he makes it dance through the air- a bird, so detailed that Aela can see the edges of feathers and the facets of its beak. It rises so that the entirety of its body can be seen at once, wings curling upward so that their very tips touch. There is a whoosh of air as it bursts apart, the sparks dissipating into the night.

"Vilkas would kill you if he saw you doing that," Aela points out, dropping into a crouch beside the elf. "He hates magic with a passion rivaled by very few men I have met."

Erin shrugs, a grin on his face, and he conjures up a bit of fire again at the tips of his fingers. At a distance, the color had seemed flat, but up close Aela can actually see a small gradient of color- lightest at the center, and darkening as it progresses towards the edges. The emerald color burns strangely against the starry night sky. It is peculiar, unnatural, and yet utterly beautiful, and Aela says as much (though perhaps not in so many words).

Erin smiles. A flick of his fingers sends the fire in the shape of a rose, then a mouse and a sat to chase it, then a miniature wolf that circles and leaps around them, and Aela watches and laughs with the joy of a child.

The early hours of the morning find Skjor at his desk, papers scattered in front of him. Some are his own handwriting. Others are that of a scholar who had passed through Whiterun a week or so earlier- the day before Erin had been found in the Temple of Kynareth, in fact. The scholar had claimed his notes proved that a piece of Ysgrammor's great axe, Wuuthrad, lay in Dustman's Cairn not far from the city. He seemed a fool, but it was up to Skjor to decide if it is worth investigating.

"Do you think there could be a chance?" Aela asks. She had been lying on the bed, trying to read a book about a ranger and his fictional journeys. It had amused her for a bit, but she had lost interest about three chapters in and had taken to watching her pack-mate instead.

Skjor shrugs, and it is a tired, disheartened thing. "There's always a chance, Aela," he says. "The question is whether it is worth putting our time and effort into when there are other chances, or if it is worth the possibility of missing a crucial piece." The Huntress slumps against his back, playing with the edges of paper over his shoulders. "I don't know about this one," he admits. "There is a good chance that it's there. There's also a really good chance it's not."

"Then send the whelp after it," Aela suggests, sliding away and plopping down on the bed. "He's well enough to travel and fight now, he's not really needed around the hall, and he's already proven he can take care of himself. Ask Vilkas about his sword, poor thing. Or talk to Uthgerd at the inn. The elf handed her ass back to her on a silver platter, and he wasn't even well enough that Vilkas let him have his armor back yet."

Skjor nods slowly. Aela can see the wheels churning in his mind. In her opinion, Skjor thinks far too much about everything. Instinct has never led the she-wolf wrong, and it is instinct that she will always trust. Skjor is her opposite, disregarding instinct in favor of logic, always _thinking things through_. To some, it is surprising that they fit so well together. To Aela, it is no surprise at all. It is _because_ they are so different that the fit so well. They are _balanced_.

"This will be his Proving," Skjor finally decides. He sets his quill aside, sets his notes into the desk, and joins Aela on the bed.

Tomorrow, Erin will leave for Dustman's Cairn.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Were-person shifts.**

 **Words: 1,417 (Longest chapter in this whole thing)**

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 **Chapter 5: The Proving.**

The walk to the cairn takes all of half the morning, and Farkas and Erin spend the walk in silence. Farkas watches the elf carefully, looking for any signs of the injuries that bothered him not two days before. There is no gimp in the elf's walk, no stutter in his breath, no pain in his stance; he is healed, no doubt. But Farkas cannot stop the concern that creeps into his mind. This is Erin's Proving, after all, not a week after he was brought to the Companions; there has never been a Proving this swift, and Farkas has no desire to carry Erin home on his back. Erin is not oblivious to his Shield-Brother's concern. There is a moment that he places his hand on Farkas's shoulder, a brief but comforting motion to tell him to _stop worrying_.

As much as Farkas appreciates the gesture, he can't.

Concern turns into high alert the moment they step into the crypt. There are damaged draugr corpses strewn about, the tang of silver and blood in the air, and the silence is not that of the dead. Erin shifts onto his toes, his blades shimmering in the faint light of the one lit brazier in the room; he senses it too, and he wants them to come.

But for the longest time, there is no one. The crypt is silent, but the silence is impure. Farkas can see Erin's elf-ears twitch as a dog's would at every break in the stillness. His eyes are half-lidded in the dark so that he might better use his other senses, and Farkas can feel the magic that radiates from the elf, creeping in a sixth-sense that is likely the most keen of his senses. There is a feral grin on the elf's face, and Farkas can see the glimmering edge of a fang.

They split up when they reach the room where the priests of old would prepare the bodies of the deceased; the gate is down, blocking the way forward, and both men know from experience that the lever or chain to open such a thing is usually hard to find. Farkas is across the room when Erin finds it, and he comes running when he hears one gate slide open and another slam shut. Erin is tense, pressing against the bars of the iron gate, on the precipice of panic, and Farkas assures him that he will find the other switch.

There are footsteps, loud boots of leather and metal clanking against the stone, and Farkas is surrounded by a rough half-circle of warriors with weapons that gleam with silver inlay. They argue about him for only a moment before Farkas can tell that they are not friendly. He grins, and fangs and savage joy.

"I'm sure you'll have great stories to tell," Farkas growls almost cheerfully. "If you live to tell them, of course."

The shift has always been the strangest part; there is the crack of bones, the pop of joints, the flood of power and energy through his blood, and it is often hard to hold onto one's self in the front of that storm. Most of the Silver Hand take a step back, and Farkas chases them. It doesn't take long for him to tear through their ranks. He surveys the destruction for but a moment before running off to find the release switch to the gate holding Erin.

By the time he returns, he has shifted back to his human form. Erin loots the bodies with calm efficiency, picking trinkets and pouches of gold from the torn corpses, and Farkas is not sure how he is supposed to act. Erin has seen his wolf form, as twisted as it is; there are so few people that have seen him in such a state that he has no idea what to do when someone new joins their fold.

"I didn't scare you, did I?" Farkas asks, uneasy, and Erin shrugs.

"I was a smart move," Erin says. He pauses in his crouch, hands in his lap, and looks up at Farkas. "I was more worried that you would get hurt," he says seriously. He waits for the words to sink in fully, the turns back to the task at hand.

A moment of silence passes between them as Erin finished collecting the spoils. It's not much, but it's more than he had before, and that's something. The path deeper into the crypt leads them past draugr and Silver Hand alike, and the fighting between the dead and the werewolf hunters makes it easy for the two Companions to take them down. Erin fights in a style that Farkas has never seen before. He is all swirling grace and deadly speed. His blades leave wounds that bleed and bleed and bleed, and Farkas is certain that any he does not kill immediately no doubt die from blood-loss later. Erin is good about not hitting Farkas in his whirlwind, sometimes ever dancing around the man to get to a fleeing opponent.

Erin nicks Farkas's shoulder only once; in the confines of the crypt, the accident really was inevitable. It's a small cut, between where the pauldron ends and the upper part of the bracers begins. Farkas doesn't even notice it until the fight is over and Erin rushes to his side, apologies on his lips and healing magic at his fingertips. Farkas flinches away at first, startled, but does not move when Erin focuses his magic onto the seemingly inconsequential cut on his upper arm. It heals surprisingly slowly, crawling closed until there is only a slightly-raised pink line remaining.

"The blades are enchanted," Erin asks at Farkas's question as he crouches to wipe said blades clean on the fur armor of one of the dead Silver Hands. "The cuts are clean, deeper than they seem. Sometimes they take longer to close than normal wounds." He pauses, hand hovering over the dead man's chest. "Sometimes they don't close in time."

Farkas places a hand over the freshly-healed wound and eyes the twin Daedric blades with a new level of respect. They don't have the visible glow of enchanted weapons, but now that Farkas knew what he was looking for there was a distinct feeling of _wrongness_ that hung around them like the fog of an illness. It was as though they were tainted in a fashion that should not be.

The very thought of how it must feel to hold them, to wield them in the fashion Erin does, sends a shiver up Farkas's spine.

The deepest part of Dustman's Cairn is a cavernous space, and it makes Farkas wonder if maybe this was originally a cave of some sort, and the burial chamber was just carved out of it. There is a large semi-circular stone monument carved with the olden letters, and Erin runs his fingers across the engravings as though they are something holy. Farkas watches him for but a moment before turning to what he is here for: the fragment of Wuuthrad. He is surprised it is actually here, has always been right here under their noses.

They have to fight their way out of the cairn, and Farkas gets the chance to see Erin's wolf form. It is more animalistic than that of the other Companions, far more akin to a true wolf than the bipedal beasts that they transform into. He is large, though, much larger than any normal wolf, and the red of his fur contrasts sharply with the greys of the tomb and of the armor of the draugr he tears through like paper. Erin is not as embarrassed about his wolf form; he looks more disturbed, really, and Farkas can tell that he has not always been one with his wolf.

There turns out to be a secret tunnel leading all the way to the entrance to the cairn, and Farkas can swear he hears Erin muttering curses under his breath the entire way.

Erin pauses just outside the cairn, and Farkas takes a few steps before he realizes that the elf is not following. It's dark out, but both moons are full in the sky, and Farkas can see the golden of Erin's wolf-eyes in the silvery light.

"Go back to Jorrvaskr," Erin says calmly, though there is a tremor of something indescribable hidden well beneath it. It is something calm, a tranquil serenity that somehow tells Farkas that the elf would be fine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings: None**

 **Word count: 1,087**

 **(Chapter title totally not inspired by the first episode of Orange is the New Black)**

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 **Chapter 6: One of Us.**

A week passes and Erin does not return to Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas paces the length of Jorrvaskr, back and forth and back and forth. That is odd enough in itself, because Vilkas is not one to move while he thinks. That's more of his brother's thing, and his brother should be moving enough for the both of them. And then there is the worry in his muscles, in his walk, in the furrow between his brows and the tightness of his shoulders. Worry. That is something new.

Aela watches him walk back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until she is certain there is a path to mark permanently where he has worn down the wood, and she tries not to laugh. So worried, and he doesn't even know why. Or, perhaps, that he is worrying in the first place. It amuses her, really, because if there is one thing similar between him and him brother that is not their appearances, it is their sheer obliviousness to anything that remotely has to do with romance.

They're attached to the missing elf, and they don't even know it.

Vilkas turns on his heel and begins yet another lap down the length of Jorrvaskr. Aela can count his steps just by the sound; not very subtle, her brother-wolf, and the clank of his metal boots is loud on her ears. There is unevenness there, like Vilkas is throwing all of his weight to one side or the other, and Aela purses her lips. He is not hurt. It isn't raining, nor is there the smell of rain on the air, nor was there a sudden change in temperature, and it isn't as though there is an old injury that would bother Vilkas under such conditions anyway.

Step, step, stop, and Vilkas turns on his heel to begin yet another lap across the mead hall, and finally Aela cannot take it anymore.

"Divines above and Daedra below, Vilkas, sit down and calm down," she shouts, getting Vilkas's attention and the attention of just about everyone present in the hall. "He's gone for a Hunt without telling anyone. It's not as though you and your brother didn't do the same when you were still whelps."

Aela's shout surprises a few people, and most tune it out when they realize that she is not talking to them- if there is one thing Aela is known for, it's being loud and crass. Vilkas, however, _blushes_ , looking almost _embarrassed,_ and Aela has to hold back a laugh as he stomps over to her side and drops roughly into the seat next to her. The force of it sends the legs scarping across the floor, the sound grating harshly on her ears, and Aela is certain that Vilkas did that just to get back at her. Her brother-wolf leans onto the back two legs and crosses his arms across his chest. To anyone else, the dark expression on his face would be nothing to trifle with.

"That was unnecessary, Sister," he growls unhappily, and Aela shrugs with a smile.

"It was entirely necessary," she responds cheerfully. "You're not going to get anywhere if you spend all of your time worrying about things you can't change. I bet you fifty Septims that it's just his moon time and he needs to blow off some steam. He's an elf, an old one and a strong one at that; I'm sure he can take care of himself. Why you're worrying about it, however," Aela says wisely, "might be something you need to examine closely." Aela throws her arm over her brother-wolf's shoulders and leans back with him, staring up at the ceiling. It's really strange, the ceiling of Jorrvaskr, as though someone took a boat, flipped it upside-down, put it on top of four walls and called it a roof. But Aela is no architect, and their strange ceiling has worked so far.

"He'll be back in a fortnight," Aela promises solemnly. "If he's not, I'll let you two after him. Until then, however, I think the old man was looking for you and your brother. Or maybe just you. I wasn't really listening. He's down in the rooms."

Vilkas gets up and leaves, and Aela watches him go with an encouraging smile that fades as he disappears down the steps. Skjor takes the seat by her, and Aela sighs heavily. They sit in loaded silence for a while, until Aela finally voices their thoughts.

"He's more of an effect on our pack than he knows."

Skjor hums, disgruntled. They both know she's right. The evidence is all around them; Erin's absence is felt, and not just by Vilkas and Farkas. Even Aela has found herself looking for the pup every now and then, and she feels a little dip in her mood every time she does not find him. Skjor has been more irritable than usual, the recruits harder to stir. It seems like the whole of Jorrvaskr had been revolving around Erin as though he were the sun. With him gone, it is just… darker, somehow.

And maybe Aela just needs to blow off some steam as well. It wouldn't be such a bad thing; the last time she went on a Hunt was months ago, and she might be going a little stir-crazy. Skjor gives her an odd look when she suggests they get out of Whiterun for a while, and there are some good questions he poses, but Aela can see the hungry edge in his eyes that is a reflection of the one in hers.

They are gone for six days. There is still fire rushing through Aela's blood, humming with the music of the Hunt and the strength of the Wolf. She can hear the chatter of the mead hall ahead, excited and energetic, and a call of a wolf that nearly overpowers her own. It fills her with panic, but also with a strange feeling, like a light warmth.

Erin is sitting at the table with the Twins, the other Companions eating with them. Njada is telling the story of her first bear hunt, interspersed generously with Vilkas's interjections that correct some of the times her tale becomes tall. A great red wolf sits at Erin's feet, framed on both sides be great black wolves, and it is then that Aela realizes that the song is not of one wolf but the harmony of _three._

Something about that scares her so very much.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warnings: None**

 **Word count: 943**

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 **Chapter 7: Shadow, Thief, Assassin.**

It's been three months since Kodlak Whitemane found the Dunmer in the Temple of Kynareth, fighting to heal his wounds. He is a member of the Circle now, a member of the pack, and Kodlak watches him with a certain level of pride. He is a fine Companion, strong with the potential to grow even stronger.

It has been three months of relative peace, and it is shattered in a moment.

She comes like a shadow, like a thief, like an assassin, unnoticed until they are _made_ aware of her. She is another elf, a Bosmer, small for her kind (almost the height of the average Nord male) but no less dangerous for it. She stands in the doorway for a long moment before her sharp red eyes lock onto her prey.

Erin sits straight in his seat and stares back at her, green eyes swirling with a million different emotions: worry, surprise, sheer and utter _joy_. Farkas and Vilkas fall silent when they notice his stillness, and his soft words are rare enough that the whole hall falls quiet when he speaks.

"It's been too long, Amelia."

The Companions watch her with wary eyes, and Amelia does not blame them. She knows how disconcerting she can be, with her tranquil posture and her strange way of moving and the aura of death that surrounds her weapons and, by contact, surrounds her. There are few that are easy in her presence. A whole group of them are in Riften. One particular elf in all the way in Solitude at the moment (or, should be).

The last sits beside her.

Erin sits closer to Amelia than is strictly necessary, but Amelia doesn't mind. They haven't seen each other for at least a half a year at this point; in fact, they haven't exchanged anything more than letters and little gifts since Alduin's fall. Of the trio, Erin has always been the most distant. Amelia understands, especially considering when they come from- where he comes from. She doesn't want him to change, not really; however, watching him talk with the Companions (her silent comrade, actually _talking_ ), Amelia finds that she wouldn't mind that much if he did.

But that's not what she's here for, and Erin can tell. He slips away sometime between Amelia joining the table and her getting into a conversation with Aela about proper bow form and returns sometime not long after decked out in armor with a packed bag resting against his seat. There's a worried look on his face (of course there is, Amelia hasn't told him anything yet), but he trusts her, and that's what matters. Amelia frowns at the blades slung across the small of his back; they are not _his_ blades, the ones that were made for him and that are a part of him, and she wonders how he can separate himself in such a way.

Outside the doors of Jorrvaskr is the first time Amelia touches Erin in over six months. He hugs her, tightly, one arm around her waist and the other around her neck. He has to hunch to tuck his face into the junction of her shoulder and neck. Amelia hugs him back with all of the gentleness of an older sister (which is strange, for her, as she is the youngest of their trio), stroking his hair and pressing her face into the side of his head. It feels like it's been _so long_. She has missed him, Amelia realizes, and it is a horrible kind of feeling that she never wants to feel again.

(Later, she will sit by Aer's side in the Blue Palace in Solitude and hold his hand firmly within her own. She will tell him all that she saw on her travels, all that she felt. She will make up for the time they have missed, as though they'd never missed it; it will have been about eight months, at that point, and Aer would still not have seen so much as hide nor hair of Erin.

Amelia will hug him with strength enough for both herself and for Erin. She will remind them that they are still family, that they will always be family. She will remind them that even family needs time apart, and that they will be stronger for this. She will remind him that they have been through worse, that this will _not_ be what tears them apart.

Later, the three of them will hug as a family again, smiling and _victorious_.)

Amelia tugs at Erin's ponytail and thunks her head against his. It makes him laugh, and that's what she wanted. There are two people waiting to speak with her, she knows, and she wants to have that discussion somewhere away from the object of the conversation. She tells him to wait for her at Breezehome, to collect everything they might need for a good month's journey.

Erin disappears into Whiterun, and Amelia turns to face the headsmen. Farkas and Vilkas (well, really just Vilkas, because Farkas is rather a very silent man) drill her on anything and everything they think to be necessary. She stands calm through it all. She can understand where they are coming from, sort of; after all, Erin is her brother as well as their mate. She goes with their reluctant blessings and smiles as she does.

(She will ask Erin about his mates later, long after they have left Whiterun behind them, and receive only a confused look for her troubles. It is then that she will realize just how oblivious her poor brother is about his own love life.)


	8. Chapter 8

**I purposefully avoided what Amelia and Erin trotted off to do because it would have been a spoiler for major events in The Eagle. (Hint: it involves the Dark Brotherhood.)**

 **Warnings: Lil' bit of guy on guy (on guy).**

 **Word Count: 803**

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 **Chapter 8: Reckoning**

Kodlak Whitemane is dead. The Companions are in mourning. The fragments of Wuuthrad are gone.

Erin sits apart from the chaos, on the outer ring of the mead hall, hands clasped tightly around the leather-bound journal that Kodlak had left for him. His face is a hard mask. His muscles are wound tight, tense in his effort to not go out and hunt those who would dare attack his pack in their own den. Farkas wants to go to him, to calm the anger in him and to sooth the pain.

But he cannot, because there is a burial by fire to ready and a feast to prepare for and a Wild Hunt to plan. Amelia has promised resources to their cause, resources which have already found where the Silver Hand rats have gone to hide, squirrelling away all of the fragments of Wuuthrad in one place and making the same mistake that the Companions one did. Somehow, Farkas has the feeling that Erin will not be joining them on this Hint. Kodlak has left him something, one last task, some final favor that Erin _will_ carry out. It will be his personal Hunt, and none of the Companions will impose upon it.

When it is time to set Kodlak to the pyre, it is to Erin that Skjor passes the torch. It surprises everyone; Skjor had been the most vehement about Erin's returning only moments after the Silver Hand had turned tail and fled. There had been words spoken out of anger, words that Erin had taken with his head down and his mouth shut and with more understanding than some thought Skjor deserved. Perhaps it was because of his reaction that Skjor realized that it was anger that had driven him, not hatred, but his forgiveness was surprising all the same.

The morning finds that Erin has disappeared into the night, Amelia on his heels. Whitemane's journal is left open on Erin's bed, opened to the page that detailed the process of reversing Lycanthropy, and Vilkas reads it aloud to the rest of the Circle with a certain amount of hesitation and _disbelief_. What Kodlak had spent most of his later life working on, what had cost him so much time and work and despair, and he had finally found the _cure_. The very thought was almost overwhelming.

So they collected the pieces of Wuuthrad. Eorlund disappears into the Underforge almost as soon as the place the pieces into his hands, and even Skjor cannot open the door.

And it's a long three days of waiting from there. Vilkas paces. Farkas, for once, sits still and contemplates what this all might mean. He thinks about everything and nothing at all. He and Vilkas talk for a time, in circles and circles that leave them both confused and brooding in silence.

At some point, Farkas drops his hand down onto the head of his wolf, as though to assure himself that it's still there.

Erin returns, alone, with the heads of six Glenmoril witches in individual, bloody bags. Farkas is actually kind of impressed that the elf made it through all of Whiterun without being arrested. He lays them out on literal silver platters on the table without hesitation and without shame. Some of the recruits watch him with new respect- and new fear. Or, they watch him for as long as he is in the main hall, until he disappears down into the rooms.

Farkas turns the corner to see Vilkas crush Erin into a firm kiss. It is not surprising. This was one of the things they had talked about, their feeling for the elf that had baffled them both for so long. He is not a stranger. He is not just a brother, or a Companion. Erin means something, something more, and looking back Farkas finds it kind of silly that it took them so long to realize this.

The kiss breaks, and Erin ducks down to press his face into Vilkas's shoulder. Farkas walks up behind the Dunmer, wrapping his arms around his middle. _Of Three became One_ , as the old song goes, or as Farkas feels. Three souls to walk the same path.

The songs of three wolves, sad and triumphant and _free_.

(Later, Farkas will lie at Erin's front, Vilkas against the elf's back, and he will run a hand through the elf's dark hair and wonder how this treasure came to belong to him. It doesn't just belong to him, of course, because he and his brother share everything, but he can still hardly believe that the Divines have graced him with _this_.

Later, Farkas will press a kiss to Erin's forehead with a smile and nestle further into the covers, relaxing into their shared warmth and the hum of their song.)


	9. Chapter 9

**You made it to the end!**

 **Thanks so much for following this story to the end. There will be others in this series that detail more of the lives of Erin, Amelia, and Aer. I will post them when they're ready (and hopefully that will be soon).**

 **Warnings: Slight violence.**

 **Words: 854**

 **Constructive comments are always welcome. Thank you for reading.**

 **(I am totally not a League of Legends fan and totally did not quote Rengar for a chapter title...)**

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 **Chapter 9: Tonight, We Hunt/Epilogue.**

The tomb of Ysgrammor is dark, quiet, and for the first time Erin steps across the threshold of a burial cairn with hesitance. The weapons that rest at his back provide a small level of reassurance; they are _his_ weapons, a silver blade enchanted with holy fire and a parrying dagger filled with tainted ice. Dusk and Dawn are their names, forged in the heart of Red Mountain, and they have been with him every turn.

Erin has no doubt that he will need them now more than ever.

Vilkas waits at the entrance. He speaks of honor and or worthiness, how he is not worthy of this honor. Erin can understand. This is the Tomb of Ysgrammor, their ancestor, their heritage, and maybe Vilkas is just not ready yet.

It's the spiders that finally turn Farkas away. He has never been a fan of the little eight-legged creatures, and the giant ones simply proved to be too much. Erin gives him a smile and a gentle push back towards the entrance where Vilkas waits. Kodlak asked this of Erin and of Erin alone, after all, and he does not want them to have to bear any of this burden.

Aela is stubborn, however, and sticks by his side to the end.

The final chamber is shaped in the image of Jorrvaskr, and Erin counts the steps to the brazier at its end. His hands shake on the hilts of his weapons, and he grips them all the tighter to steady himself. Kodlak falls in step with him about halfway down the hall, explaining what must be done to reverse the Lycanthropy that ties him to Hircine's hunting grounds, and Erin listens.

The burning of the head of the Glenmoril witch sets a sickly-sweet smell into the air, and Erin is thankful for his strong stomach. Aela turns rather pale at the scent, but her face is hard and determined and this does not turn her away.

She stands her ground even when the thundering growl of a wolf fills the room. It is a great white beast, to Erin's ribs at the shoulder and thick with strong, corded muscle. It has an ethereal aura about it, but Erin has no doubt that it will tear him to shreds should it get its jaws around him. It makes a fair effort at that as well. It is fast and strong and nimble, and Erin and Aela together are hard-pressed to defeat it.

In the end, however, the wolf lays dead, slowly fading away, and Kodlak with it. Erin sees him give Aela one last, fatherly hug, sees him whisper his last words into her ear before he begins his last journey, to the mead halls of Sovngarde. They are left alone again in the silence.

 **…**

It's the routine that's always the hardest to get back into. The Companions suffered a great loss and won a great victory, but after that not much changed around Jorrvaskr. Everyone was always one place or another, finishing jobs or training or picking fights. Everything, in time, goes back to normal.

Erin is working at his desk when Vilkas finds him. There is a new pup in the room set apart from the rest that they must deal with and new requests all the time that Erin, as the Harbinger of the Companions, must see too. He does a very good job of balancing everything; Vilkas can't remember the last time Skjor had this much free time on his hands.

(All has not been perfect with Erin as Harbinger; Vilkas never would have expected it to be. The people question, always question, whether an elf can lead the Companions. Njada still sneers at the elf, still challenges his judgment. They are obstacles to overcome in time, and Vilkas is certain that Erin will overcome them.)

"You're working hard," Vilkas says, and he throws an arm over Erin's shoulder. He picks up the letter he'd been looking over- Arcadia at the apothecary needs some ice-wraith teeth and some wisp wrappings and is willing to pay rather well for them. "How long have you been at it?"

The Dunmer shrugs as much as he is allowed under Vilkas's arm and tries to snatch back the letter while still sorting through the other ones waiting his approval. Vilkas holds the paper out of Erin's reach until he finally looks up. "How long have you been working?" Vilkas asks again, and Erin sighs.

"Only a couple of hours now," he says softly. There are not too many today, so I'll be done before lunch."

"Or," Farkas says from where he is leaning against the frame of the door to the bedroom, "You can take a break now, and we'll help you finish the rest later." He smirks at Erin's huff. The elf half-heartedly pokes at the papers on his desk before finally caving, stacking them into neat piles to be sorted through later. Vilkas drags Erin out of his seat with a playful grin.

To a tune that only they can hear, three wolves sing in harmony.


End file.
